"Judging by your face, they certainly are," retorted the detective, drily; "but what is the matter with you, grumbler? Are you hard up?"
"No! I have a sufficiency of this world's goods."
"The critics have been abusing your last poems, perhaps?"
"Pooh! I'm used to that."
"Ah! then there's only one reason left. You are in love?"
"True, oh king," said Roger, drawing hard at his pipe, "I am in love."
"Tell me all about it," said Fanks, curling himself up luxuriously in his chair. "I adore love confidences. When you were a small nuisance at school, you told me all your troubles, and I consoled you. Do so now, and—"
"No! no!" cried Axton, suddenly, "you can't console me now. No one can do that."
"That remains to be seen," said Fanks, smiling. "Come now, Roger, tell me your trouble. Though we have been parted for ten years, I have often thought of my school friend. Unburden your heart to me; it will relieve your mind if it does nothing else."
Thus adjured, Roger brightened up, and settling himself comfortably in his chair, put his feet against the mantelpiece, blew a thick cloud of smoke, and began to tell his story.